


If There Will Be No More Dawns, Let Us Make Our Own

by Caenea



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: First Time, M/M, Poetic dawn symbolism, Sexual Relations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire share one golden moment before their deaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If There Will Be No More Dawns, Let Us Make Our Own

“You fool!” Enjolras shouts, throat thick and eyes burning as he looks at Grantaire.  
“You wound me, friend,” is the quiet response, the gentle flicker of candle flame off the glass of the bottle flashing bright suddenly. Perhaps that is why Enjolras can feel his eyes begin to water.  
“You have not stood up and fought.”  
“No, I have not.”  
“Do you plan to?” Enjolras asks, quiet now, temper out-burned by exhaustion.  
“I do not know, Enjolras.”  
“You did not want this, Grantaire. Well do I know it. You followed this for reasons I never understood, but now – now this is real.”  
“It was always real.” Grantaire’s voice is smooth, quiet, a dangerous sign to those that know. But tiredness fogs the brain of the leader of their band, he is weary and bloodied and he knows now, he knows that they will not win.  
“I will not make you stay,” Enjolras murmurs. “It is almost dawn. You could escape, if you left now.”  
“You insult me. You say I did not want this, you say you do not know why I followed it. I never followed this. I never wanted this. I followed you, you damn fool. I followed you, I wanted you. They say men like me will burn in hell. They say men like me will know nothing but regret. But I do not regret this. I do not regret this night, sitting here and waiting for dawn and knowing I will never see another dawn paint the skies of Paris scarlet. And loving you, Enjolras, will be worth each second I spend in Hell, if that is truly where I am to go now. But don’t you dare, don’t you dare stand there and tell me I have an escape! There is no escape now, there has not been an escape for me since I met you. Damn you, you foolish, arrogant man. And damn me for loving you regardless.”

There is silence. Oh! such silence. It is dark. The stars are their witnesses, as Grantaire glares at Enjolras, and Enjolras stares back, at a loss for anything to say. Grantaire’s lips twist into a poor imitation of a smile.  
“You need say nothing to me, friend. But I will not leave tonight, nor any other night.” He turns, he would leave, Enjolras knows it. So he puts out a hand, and takes Grantaire’s arm and clings to his shirtsleeve. Grantaire turns a little. “No sympathetic let down, please. Spare me that, if you ever cared even slightly for me.”  
“I did not have one. I only wanted to say – it isn’t fair.”  
“Such is life,” Grantaire says, sadly now, eyes still turned away.  
“No – it isn’t fair that you should die for me. And it isn’t fair that you say this only now, and you did not say it months ago so we might have seen a hundred dawns together.” Grantaire turns back properly now, eyes glowing, lips turning to a smile.  
“Do you mean that? You do not say it because we will both be dead by morning?”  
“I say it because you should have spoken before.”

As Grantaire takes him in his arms, and looks down upon the face he has memorised through hours of study and nights of dreams, Enjolras gives him a smile. The smile is weary and worn and tells of resignation, but nonetheless it is a smile. So Grantaire kisses it and it tastes of blood and bread and ash, and Grantaire thinks it might be even better than wine, better than absinthe and better than sweet oblivion. It is right, somehow, that their first kiss tastes of war, it is right that it will also be their last kiss. The sky does not grow lighter, as if the dawn holds its breath to give them more precious minutes. The stars do not fade, they gleam down without judgement as Grantaire helps Enjolras shed his clothes so he can kiss his blazing path down his body. Grantaire knows from the hesitant sighs and catches of breath that spill from Enjolras like music that the man has never known the touch of rough stubble against his neck, against his chest, against his belly as Grantaire lingers there to lap the sweat from the golden skin. His broken cry as Grantaire permits hot breath to ghost across his cock tells Grantaire that this man is untouched completely.  
“If I were not already damned,” he murmurs, licking at Enjolras delicately, not wanting to go too far too fast, not wanting it to be over too quickly. Yes, if he were not already damned, this would damn him, taking this purity and sullying it with his roughened hands and all the sins those hands have been party to.

Even though Grantaire longs to sink his teeth into the smooth shoulder as he takes his pleasure quickly and selfishly, for once he bears in mind the fragility of his lover. So he is gentle as he prepares Enjolras for what will happen, as he uses his fingers to find that mysterious spot within his lover that makes Enjolras curl his toes and gasp and writhe beneath the hand Grantaire places on his chest to steady him. And when he slides inside Enjolras, when the heat envelopes him and might be burning his skin with its intensity, he could cry the tears that slip out of Enjolras’ eyes. He lets him adjust, torturous as it is, and then he begins to move over his lover. Enjolras wraps his arms about Grantaire’s shoulders, buries his face into the mess of dark hair falling over his shoulder, and Grantaire feels the wet, hurried kisses, and feels his cry of orgasm before he hears the sound.

He’s been a fool for years, drowning himself in alcohol to find Nirvana, when Nirvana is that cry, is that half-sob, half-ecstatic scream of pleasure. Heaven will not be his but perhaps that doesn’t matter, when he has touched paradise on his last night on earth. Grantaire comes to pleasure with a groan, he holds himself still to ensure he leaves himself inside Enjolras. He rolls to the side to pant, to stare up at the stars one last time because God knows he will never again see stars.

He does not mean to sleep, but he wakes alone to night fading to pale grey. There are shots around him, screams ringing out and Enjolras is gone. He dresses, he runs, he goes into the cafe. Dear God. Courfeyrac lies dead, and beside him, horrifically, lies Combeferre. No sign of Joly and the others, so he hauls himself up, knowing only that he intends to reach the shouting of the soldiers. No, here are Joly, Bahoral, Jehan, there they are, lying together. He bolts up the last of the stairs and there, there, silhouetted against the scarlet dawn, is his Nirvana. He barely sees the soldiers, he walks to his lover and he smiles at the only God he knows.  
“Do you permit it?” he whispers. Enjolras nods, and they stand together. The guns ring out.

The final dawn is red, as it should be.


End file.
